Friday, November 13, 2015

The Rewards of Just Being Yourself

Soon I will have many quarts of chicken stock made from a 100% free-range chicken that I did not have to raise myself, and all because of my unashamed woodchuckiness.

See, what happened was, I was talking to a couple of other mothers at the St. Martin's Day celebration at the preschool this week, and one of the women mentioned that her daughter's young chicken flock is turning out to have a few roosters. Chickens are often sold in what's called a "straight run," meaning the hatchery just gathers up a bunch of chicks without trying to figure out their sex (which is kind of hard to do at only a couple of days old, anyway) and you just wait for them to mature to see what you end up with. 

So this flock is just now getting mature enough to tell the sex, and there are some roosters. There is one particular rooster that is of course the prettiest one, and also of course is the most obnoxious. This seems to be a corollary for males of every species.


The woman mentioned that this rooster had been stalking the home inspector who came to their house and kind of scared the man, though the rooster had not yet displayed any signs of aggression to the family.

So I told her about our ill-fated Welsummer rooster and how the aggression only escalates. I also mentioned the roosters we were given by the MiL's co-worker for disposal after they had gotten too difficult to handle.

Basically, I announced that we are the final resting place for all asshole roosters. Or rather, my stockpot is. 

I am the master of party conversation, yes.

It's cool, though, because this woman's mother is the MiL's cousin, and I happen to know that one time a rooster jumped up to spur her--the mother--while she was walking across the yard, and she grabbed it in mid-air and broke its neck. 

Bad. Ass.

I figure if you grow up with a lady like that, you're not going to be disturbed by the fact that I enjoy cooking mean roosters.

Anyway again.

Two days after this conversation, I got an e-mail from the chicken owner saying the rooster had started getting aggressive with her and wouldn't back down even when she kicked it, so we could have it if we wanted it.


Now my chicken stock supply for the winter is assured, and all because of my total ineptitude with polite small talk. 

Woodchucks win again.


Anonymous said...

You are amazing! Mary in MN

Anonymous said...

This blog is truly a highlight! Thanks for another great story.

Susan said...

"...the final resting place for all asshole roosters." You are hilarious!

Daisy said...

Love it. All's well that ends well, and this ended with chicken stock and boys playing with wings.
Speaking of boys playing, you need to get the book Tom by Tomie dePaola. You'll see why when you read it. Maybe you should read it yourself before you share it with your clever young men.